No More Learning

Nor deemed he lived unto himself alone,
Not always unimpeded can I pray,
Not as all other women are,
Now Biorn, the son of Heriulf, had ill days,

O days endeared to every Muse,
'O Dryad feet,'
O dwellers in the valley-land,
O Land of Promise! from what Pisgah's height,
O moonlight deep and tender,
O wandering dim on the extremest edge,
Of all the myriad moods of mind,
Oft round my hall of portraiture I gaze,
Oh, tell me less or tell me more,
Old events have modern meanings; only that survives,
Old Friend, farewell! Your kindly door again,
On this wild waste, where never blossom came,
Once git a smell o' musk into a draw,
Once hardly in a cycle blossometh,
Once on a time there was a pool,
One after one the stars have risen and set,
One feast, of holy days the crest,
One kiss from all others prevents me,
Opening one day a book of mine,
Our love is not a fading, earthly flower,
Our ship lay tumbling in an angry sea,
Over his keys the musing organist,

Phoebus, sitting one day in a laurel-tree's shade,
Praisest Law, friend? We, too, love it much as they that love it best,
Propped on the marsh, a dwelling now, I see,
Punctorum garretos colens et cellara Quinque,

Rabbi Jehosha used to say,
Reader! Walk up at once (it will soon be too late),
Rippling through thy branches goes the sunshine,

Said Christ our Lord, I will go and see,
Seat of all woes? Though Nature's firm decree,
She gave me all that woman can,
Shell, whose lips, than mine more cold,
Ship, blest to bear such freight across the blue,
Shy soul and stalwart, man of patient will,
Silencioso por la puerta,
Sisters two, all praise to you,
Skilled to pull wires, he baffles Nature's hope,
Sleep is Death's image,--poets tell us so,
So dreamy-soft the notes, so far away,
Some sort of heart I know is hers,
Sometimes come pauses of calm, when the rapt bard, holding his heart back,
Somewhere in India, upon a time,
Spirit, that rarely comest now,
Still thirteen years: 'tis autumn now,
Stood the tall Archangel weighing,
Strong, simple, silent are the [steadfast] laws,
Swiftly the politic goes: is it dark? --he borrows a lantern,

Thank God, he saw you last in pomp of May,
Thanks to the artist, ever on my wall,
That's a rather bold speech, my Lord Bacon,
The Bardling came where by a river grew,
The century numbers fourscore years,
The cordage creaks and rattles in the wind,
The dandelions and buttercups,
The electric nerve, whose instantaneous thrill,
The fire is burning clear and blithely,
The hope of Truth grows stronger, day by day,
The little gate was reached at last,
The love of all things springs from love of one,
The Maple puts her corals on in May,
The misspelt scrawl, upon the wall,
The moon shines white and silent,
The New World's sons, from England's breasts we drew,
The next whose fortune 'twas a tale to tell,
The night is dark, the stinging sleet,
The old Chief, feeling now wellnigh his end,
The path from me to you that led,
The pipe came safe, and welcome too,
The rich man's son inherits lands,
The same good blood that now refills,
The sea is lonely, the sea is dreary,
The snow had begun in the gloaming,
The tower of old Saint Nicholas soared upward to the skies,
The wind is roistering out of doors,
The wisest man could ask no more of Fate,
The world turns mild; democracy, they say,
There are who triumph in a losing cause,
There came a youth upon the earth,
There lay upon the ocean's shore,
There never yet was flower fair in vain,
Therefore think not the Past is wise alone,
These pearls of thought in Persian gulfs were bred,
These rugged, wintry days I scarce could bear,
They pass me by like shadows, crowds on crowds,
Thick-rushing, like an ocean vast,
This is the midnight of the century,--hark!
This kind o' sogerin' aint a mite like our October trainin',
This little blossom from afar,
Thou look'dst on me all yesternight,
Thou wast the fairest of all man-made things,
Though old the thought and oft exprest,
Thrash away, you'll _hev_ to rattle,
Through suffering and sorrow thou hast passed,
Thy love thou sentest oft to me,
Thy voice is like a fountain,
'Tis a woodland enchanted!
To those who died for her on land and sea,
True as the sun's own work but more refined,
True Love is a humble, low-born thing,
Turbid from London's noise and smoke,
'Twas sung of old in hut and hall,
'Twere no hard task, perchance, to win,
Two brothers once, an ill-matched pair,
Two fellers, Isrel named and Joe,

Unconscious as the sunshine, simply sweet,
Unseen Musician, thou art sure to please,
Untremulous in the river clear,

Violet! sweet violet!

Wait a little: do _we_ not wait?
Walking alone where we walked together,
We see but half the causes of our deeds,
We, too, have autumns, when our leaves,
We wagered, she for sunshine, I for rain,
Weak-winged is song,
What boot your houses and your lands?
What countless years and wealth of brain were spent,
'What fairings will ye that I bring? '
What gnarled stretch, what depth of shade, is his!
What hath Love with Thought to do?
What know we of the world immense,
What man would live coffined with brick and stone,
What mean these banners spread,
'What means this glory round our feet,'
What Nature makes in any mood,
What visionary tints the year puts on,
What were I, Love, if I were stripped of thee,
What were the whole void world, if thou wert dead,
When a deed is done for Freedom, through the broad earth's aching breast,
When I was a beggarly boy,
When oaken woods with buds are pink,
When Persia's sceptre trembled in a hand,
When the down is on the chin,
When wise Minerva still was young,
Where is the true man's fatherland?
'Where lies the capital, pilgrim, seat of who governs the Faithful? '
Whether my heart hath wiser grown or not,
Whether the idle prisoner through his grate,
While the slow clock, as they were miser's gold,
Whither? Albeit I follow fast,
Who cometh over the hills,
Who does his duty is a question,
Who hath not been a poet? Who hath not,
Why should I seek her spell to decompose,
With what odorous woods and spices,
Woe worth the hour when it is crime,
Wondrous and awful are thy silent halls,
Words pass as wind, but where great deeds were done,
Worn and footsore was the Prophet,

Ye little think what toil it was to build,
Ye who, passing graves by night,
Yes, faith is a goodly anchor,

Zekle crep' up, quite unbeknown,




INDEX OF TITLES

The titles of major works and of general divisions are set in SMALL
CAPITALS.


A. C. L. , To.
Above and Below.
Absence.
After the Burial.
Agassiz.
Agro-Dolce.
Al Fresco.
Aladdin.